Lies Pregnant Women Tell Themselves About Motherhood

Lie:  "I'll exercise before the kids get up and lose that baby weight in no time!"

Reality:  No you won't.  You'll wake up only when your child has been crying long enough that it's clear he won't be going back to bed.  And if you're really not a morning person, you might even train your children to go back to bed for an hour or two after their first bottle, for the sole purpose of getting more shut-eye yourself.  (Not that I speak from experience.  Ahem.)

Lie:  "I will totally stay on top of the laundry and dirty bottles and I'll even cook real meals every night!"

Reality:  You will eat ramen noodles and dry toast standing up in your kitchen while staring at the mountain of dishes piled in your sink.

Lie:  "I'll have so much time on maternity leave, I'll finally be able to stain the cabinets/reupholster the chair/insert household project here that I've been meaning to do for ages!"

Reality:  Before your child is born, maternity leave will seem like a wonderful, extra-long vacation.  But then you'll give birth and your child will refuse to nap for longer than twenty minutes, and all you will want to spend those twenty minutes doing is zoning out in front of the TV (or showering, if you're feeling ambitious).

Lie:  "I will feed my child only homemade, organic purees!"

Reality:  You will spend many an afternoon steaming sweet potatoes and carrots and mashing avocados, only to realize how much freaking easier it is to buy the damn jars for 62 cents a piece.

Lie:  "I'll still put effort into my appearance after the baby arrives!"

Reality:  Some days, you won't even change out of your pajamas.

Lie:  "I'll still be the same person, just with a baby!"

Reality:  You will change completely, in ways you never thought possible.  And it will be better than you ever dreamed it would be.

"Dinner on the table every night!  Good one, Mama!"

What I Know Now

Tomorrow, November 17th, is World Prematurity Day, a day focused on raising awareness about premature birth around the world.  Before I got pregnant, I never imagined I'd end up giving birth at twenty-five weeks, but it happens far more often than anyone realizes.  To learn more about World Prematurity Day, visit the World Prematurity Day Facebook Page, or follow along on Twitter with the hashtag #worldprematurityday.

One of the things I love most about writing this blog is hearing from other preemie mothers who hear their own stories in my words.  To everyone who has ever written me since I started writing about my twins, please know that I so very much appreciate you taking the time to share a bit about your own journey.  The more mothers I hear from, the clearer it becomes - preemie stories matter.  All of them.    No matter how easy or hard a course we had in the NICU, no matter how long we were there, these stories have become part of who we are as mothers, and they deserve to be honoured.  And, of course, our amazing, tiny, warrior babies deserve to be honoured too, whether or not they are still living, whether or not they are meeting their milestones, whatever their situations look like.  And no one will understand that like another preemie parent.

Sharing Our Stories: Maja & Alexis

The more I hear from other preemie moms, both in person and through this blog, the more I am struck by the similarity of our experiences.  Each path is different, every journey is significant, but the moment you hear yourself in another mom's story - your thoughts, your fears, your feelings - is the moment you realize that you are not alone.  NICUs are filled with families fighting the same kind of fight, and yet it can feel so isolating so much of the time .  Not only do we need to hear these stories, the stories that sound just like ours, we need to tell them, too. We need to speak of our own pain, of the close calls and the sleepless nights and the magical moments our endless prayers were answered (and the moments when they weren't).  And we need to hear them, to know that, no matter how lonely it can seem, there actually are others out there who understand.

Trick or Treat

From a cow and a ladybug!

The Problem With Early Intervention

As with most preemie parents, we take Madeleine and Reid to a lot of appointments.  They currently see a paediatrician, physiotherapist, occupational therapist, neurosurgeon, and ophthalmologist, and probably will continue to for a while.  The list may grow longer as we discover other issues and needs.  When babies are born very small and very early, things tend to go wrong, they tend to need extra help, so these appointments are put in place at discharge (sometimes they even begin during their NICU stay), with the intention of providing as much help and assistance to these little ones as early as possible.  You get a team of people on your side, a reassurance that you won't be alone in advocating for your children.  It's a good thing.

Your Children Are Not Your Children

Today, the babies turned seven months corrected.  As many mamas before me can attest to, time is speeding by faster and faster.  It seems like every week brings with it a new skill, a new favourite food, a new aspect of their ever-evolving personalities that I get to discover.  Of course, some of those new aspects are less than wonderful - the newly-developed whining, the constant teething pain, the screaming for fun, the throwing of food during meal times, the all-out nap strikes - but every day I look at Madeleine and Reid, these amazing little people who have come so, so far in seven months, and think how lucky I am to get to be the one who sees it all.

Kicked

I was folding the babies' laundry when I felt it, a quick little thump in my tummy, likely an indigestion side effect from the copious amounts of Thanksgiving turkey I'd consumed the day before.  But there was a brief moment between feeling it and identifying its cause that my mind strayed and I thought, a kick.  It hadn't yet clicked in that, no, that certainly wasn't what it was.  Instead, I thought of Reid, the baby that used to kick me the same way in that same spot.  I instinctively put my hand over it, trying to "catch" it the way I always used to when I was pregnant, in that brief window of time when I got to feel my babies move.  And then, of course, I remembered that, nope, that's over now, and my heart sank a little.

Thankful

This time a year ago, I was four months pregnant.  I was sick - really, constantly, all-the-time sick - so Matt and I opted to stay home and cook our own mini Thanksgiving dinner, just the two of us.  We had no idea what lied ahead, that I'd be giving birth in a scary blur only two months later.  We cooked and laughed and set off smoke alarms and talked about baby names and where in the world we'd move if we didn't have to worry about finding paying work.  It was one of my most favourite days.

Today, we're also cooking Thanksgiving dinner together at home, although there will be two more people at the table.  Getting to this point has meant a lot of stress and tears and sadness, a lot of sleepless nights.  But it's also been about love, a new kind of love I didn't even realize existed, for these new little humans I get to call my children.  And a new kind of love for Matt too, for both the incredible father he's become as well as for the person who shared that terrifying journey with me, whose heart broke along with mine, who never left my side.

I had no idea a year ago what lied ahead for us, couldn't have possibly imagined it even if I'd tried.  But I also had no idea either just how wonderful it would be, and just how much I would have to be thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours xx

What NOT To Say To A Twin Mom

One thing I've learned as a mom of twins is that, well, people LOVE twins.  Any time we're out in public, we will inevitably be stopped by someone who wants to sneak a peak at my children, and I'm usually happy to oblige.  I understand the fascination — two babies!  Two babies at once! — and I always appreciate hearing from other twin moms or from people who were twins themselves.  But I also hear a lot of other stuff.  And that other stuff tends to get repeated.  A LOT.  I've been lucky that all the questions and comments I get have all been well-intentioned, but there are a few things I wish people knew about what it's like to have twins.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "A boy and a girl?  Are they identical?"

This is by far the question I am asked the most, and it always baffles me!  Identical twins are two babies formed from an egg that split into two - actual clones of one another.  Not only do my babies hardly look alike, they are DIFFERENT GENDERS.  They are about as identical as any brother and sister can be - which is not at all!  Two eggs, two sacs, two placentas.  Having fraternal twins is pretty much just having two normally-related siblings that happened to be born at the same time.

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD:  Next time you see boy/girl twins out and about and want to say something about it, try, "fraternal twins!  How lovely!"  Not only will mom appreciate the sentiment, but you'll get bonus points for knowing the difference.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "I always wanted twins!"

When I first got pregnant, it didn't even factor into my brain that there could be more than one baby in there.  So needless to say, when I found out, it was a pretty big shock.  One big, terrifying shock.  Two babies at once!  Twice the crying and feeding and dirty diapers.  I would already be outnumbered!  Will I ever sleep again?!

I love my babies more than I ever thought I could love anything, but taking care of two at once is not easy, and sometimes (especially when the babies first came home) I thought it would have been better to only have one.  Even though I know that it is meant to be a compliment, when someone says this to me, what I hear is, "If I had twins, I'd think it was so lovely and wonderful all of the time!"  Which is to say that I should think so too.

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD:  "Fraternal twins!  How lovely!"  Expressing your love of twins without implying any judgment.  Win.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "Oh my goodness, I can't even imagine having two babies at once!"

Ok, I totally get it.  In fact, if I didn't have twins myself, I'd probably say it too!  Two babies is a lot of babies.  Even one baby is hard, so I understand your shock and horror when you consider that you could have had more than that.  But you're also basically telling me that I got stuck with something you'd never want (even if you don't mean to).  That kind of makes me feel bad - like no other mother in the world would want to be me!  I understand that it's not personal, but hey, I'm a sensitive new mama here, I can't help it.

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD:  "Fraternal twins!  How lovely!"  (Are we sensing a theme?)

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "You're a saint/super mom/warrior/etc."

Thanks.  Except, I'm not any of those things!  I didn't choose to have two babies, it could happen to anyone.  And when it does, you just figure it out the same way any mom figures it out.  You could do it too!  (Besides, some moms have triplets!  Or quads!  Some even have six or (gulp!) eight babies at once!  Two babies is nothing.)

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD:  "Fraternal twins!  How lovely!"  Works every time, I swear.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "Two at once! Now you never have to do it again!"

This one is personally hard for me, because my pregnancy and delivery were such a colossal disaster.  I couldn't carry even close to term, and a still feel a profound sense of loss about it.  I didn't even reach the third trimester!  I didn't get a big belly, I didn't get to feel them moving around a lot, I didn't get to wait until my water broke to rush to the hospital in an excited frenzy.  I didn't even get to hear my babies cry when they were born - because they couldn't.

Nobody would ever know this from looking at me, and I definitely wouldn't hold it against you if you said this (I usually just smile and agree), but the truth is that there is a part of me that dreams of doing it again, dreams of being able to do the thing my body was meant to do, dreams of having it go like it was supposed to.  And I don't know if I'll ever be able to.  I don't even know if I want more children.  But I do know that I'd love a do-over with Madeleine and Reid.  I would love to do it again if I knew nothing would go wrong.

(Besides, how do you know I don't really have my heart set on three or five or seventeen children?!  And one baby is plenty for some parents!  Two is not a magic number.)

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD:  Say it with me now...."Fraternal twins!  How lovely!"

WHAT NOT TO SAY:  "Are they natural twins?"

No.  Just, no.  Don't say this!  As opposed to what?  Artificial?  Yes, fertility treatments can often result in multiples, but asking about anyone's reproductive history is never a good idea.  It's a sensitive topic, and also, nobody else's business.  It's also implying that natural twins (or ‘spontaneous twins’ to use the more accurate term) are somehow better, which is unfair.  Unless I personally volunteer information about my children's conception (which, uh, I won't ever do), please don't ask.  Like, anyone.  Don't ask anyone ever.

WHAT TO SAY INSTEAD.  Nothing.  Walk away.  (Okay, "Fraternal twins!  How lovely!" works here too.)

Next time we run into each other at the supermarket, please come say hello!  Just please, please, don't ask me if my kids are identical.

That Baby Smell

When Madeleine and Reid were first born, we weren't really sure how to interact with them.  We couldn't hold them right away, and even when we could, it was a specific type of holding, a pre-planned activity you had to coordinate with the nurse, involving tubes and wires and undressing and sitting for as long as you possibly could so that your baby could benefit from skin-to-skin time.  Even touching them in their incubators had a protocol - no stroking or touching that could be stressful or overstimulating.  Instead, we could firmly hold their head and feet, trying to recreate what it probably felt like when they were confined inside my body.  When your baby is born very premature, nothing is spontaneous, all interactions must happen carefully.  You don't hold them the same way as normal parents, you don't have the same kinds of early experiences.  But what we did have was their smell.

I think all parents love the smell of their infants, the sweet, warm, delicious scent that emanates from their otherwise poopy, pukey humans.  I love it too, the way they smell when I nuzzle into them during a cuddle or after a bath, but in truth, I almost don't even notice it these days.  What I remember most vividly, a sharp, precise memory in what is otherwise a giant blur, is the scent of Madeleine and Reid in those first few weeks of life.  The way it made our hearts swell and helped us fall in love with them.  The way it made us parents.

When Madeleine and Reid were first born, and for a fair while afterward, they were kept in small, enclosed incubators to regulate their temperatures.  Very early preemies cannot do this very well on their own, especially at the beginning, so the temperature had to be kept pretty high.  I remember so clearly the warmth of their rooms, the way I'd be sweating sitting there in a t-shirt while a bitterly cold winter waited outside.  But those were the days when even the act of opening an incubator porthole would cause the alarm to sound - even a slight change in temperature made a big difference.

Back them, all we could do was sit by their incubators while they slept, head in one hand, and feet in the other.  A baby still has a long way to go at twenty-five weeks gestation, a lot more time left that should have been spent in the warmth and darkness of utero.  So that's what we did for hours at a time, sitting there, sweating, with our hands on their little bodies, trying not to move much, if at all.  And when it was time to stop, when we had to close the portholes and leave our little ones, the one thing we had left was the scent left by our babies on our hands.

"Here!", Matt would say, holding out his hand, and I would close my eyes and it would smell so strongly of Madeleine, whatever that meant, the incredible, unique, delicious smell of my baby girl.  I would do the same and offer my hand, the one that smelled like Reid, and we would smile at each other during this strange little ritual, understanding that the incubators and the tubes and the monitors were not who our babies were, but that those smells were our children.

We knew them so well that at night, when we came home, if we tried hard enough we could conjure them in our minds.  When the hospital gave us hug blankets - little squares of flannel that the babies heads would lie on - I would wear them eagerly inside my shirt all night long before bringing them in the next morning.  The babies couldn't really see me, couldn't really understand what was going on, but I hoped that when the nurse laid them down onto their hug blankets they would smell me, and that it might comfort them the same way their smells comforted me.

Later on, once the babies we wearing clothes, Matt and I would bring bags of the babies' laundry home with us to wash.  Once we'd get in the door we'd go through it piece by piece - "Mmm, this one smells like Madeleine!", "Oh, this one smells just like Reid!" - and envision the days when they'd be home and we wouldn't have to rely on smelling their clothes to feel closer to them.

Now that those days have arrived, it's even better than I could have hoped.  Seeing them everyday, hearing them laugh or cry, watching them eat and roll around, feeling them snuggle in when I pick them up after a nap.  But, I really don't notice their smells anymore.  I guess I don't have to.

In Good Time

At first, we were most worried about Reid.  Before we knew about Madeleine's hemorrhage, before the hydrocephalus, and the surgeries and the shunts, all we knew was that Reid wasn't doing so great.  He needed a lot of help to breathe.  He had a heart murmur and a PDA, and it might need surgery.  From the get go, we saw Madeleine pushing back against the ventilator, getting frustrated at the technology needed to keep her alive.  We saw a spark in Madeleine since the moment she came into the world much too soon - impatient from the very start.  But with Reid, we didn't really see that.  And that concerned me.

I often think that the best part of having twins is realizing how little I actually have to do with who they are.  With one baby, I would imagine you would feel a lot of pressure to do everything perfectly, to not mess up your influence on your blank slate of a child.  That's what I expected, anyway.  But when Madeleine and Reid were born, it became clear from day one that they were very different people.  They had their own personalities, their own needs and sensitivities, their own way of experiencing the world, even though I was doing everything the same.  I realized pretty quickly that my job as a mother wouldn't be to mould or influence them at all, but just to try to stand by them and try not to get too in the way of who they were naturally going to become.

This has been easier to do with Madeleine.  She's naturally curious and talkative and pushy and determined - things that, as a mother of a child who endured fairly significant neurological trauma, make me think, thank goodness.  We need her to be all of those things.  Those things will help her try to overcome the obstacles in her way.  But with Reid, it's always been a struggle.  He's so relaxed, happy to just be held and fed and snuggled.  Happy to just lie there and watch his sister squirming and scooting and reaching for things.  This is who he is - it has always been who he is - but sometimes I think, "c'mon little guy.  Try a little harder."

Madeleine is talkative.  Reid, not so much.  Madeleine grabs her toes and sticks them in her mouth and rolls and grabs her toys.  Reid, not so much.  At our most recent follow-up appointment, we were told this was probably a bad thing.  His muscles are tight, his core is weak, he needs physiotherapy.  He's getting stuck in his patterns, it'll make it harder for him to sit and stand and progress.  He's not making clear sounds, maybe he's having trouble hearing.  It was exactly the thing the anxious mother inside of me wanted to hear.  I was right!  There's something wrong!  But I was forgetting something else very important about Reid, which is that he has his own schedule.  Reid takes his time.  Reid does things when he is ready to do them, and pushing and prodding him to go any faster makes no difference whatsoever.

Eventually, Reid did come off the ventilator.  Eventually, he began breathing room air.  Eventually, his PDA closed without surgery, and his murmur became faint.  Eventually he passed his car seat test, on his third attempt (compared to Madeleine's 'one and done').  And now, eventually, he is making sounds and grabbing his toes and laughing and screaming, and not showing any signs of caring that his sister did it first.

https://vimeo.com/76074675

 

NICU Central

When the twins entered the NICU, and the words 'apneic spells', 'bradycardia', 'PDA' and 'intraventricular hemorrhage' were starting to become part of our daily conversations, I began scouring the Internet looking for stories from other preemie moms.  I wanted to hear from people who had made it, and I desperately wanted to know what their lives looked like "on the other side".  Of particular interest to me were the few blogs I found whose children were also micro preemies, or who also had twins, or (most helpful of all) who also had brain bleeds and shunts.  I would stay up reading them late into the night huddled in my bed over my laptop screen, taking in as much as I could.  When we knew that Madeleine had a bleed in her brain, I needed to read about what could come next, the subgaleal shunt and the head ultrasounds, and the second shunt surgery later on.  I needed to read about babies coming home, I needed to read about them growing up, I needed to read about what life was like when your child was developmentally delayed, or needing a shunt revision, or living with cerebral palsy.  I just needed to read as much as I could about what my future may or may not realistically look like.  I really needed preemie blogs.

Once the babies came home and life became "normal", I started writing less for day-to-day updating purposes, and more to share my story - both for myself and for other moms.  I wanted to give something back to the small community of blogging preemie moms who didn't even know how much they had helped me, how much it made a difference in those early hours of the morning when I felt like I was the only mother in the world whose babies were struggling.  Because of this, I was so happy when Trish at the wonderful NICU Central asked to share some of my posts on her blog for other NICU families.  The further away we get from our time in the NICU, the more I realize how incredibly important it is for preemie moms and dads to share their stories, to hear the stories of others, and to be part of some kind of community - big or small, online or in real life - where they can connect with people who understand what they're going through.  And if you happen to be a mom or dad visiting from NICU Central, my sincere hope is that one of my posts might do that for you.

Six Months

Yesterday, Madeleine and Reid turned six months old based on their corrected age.  This felt like a pretty big deal, as it means that we have now officially entered the realm of solid food, (almost) independent sitting, and teeth (two on the bottom for each of them!).  Even though these things are totally natural and had nothing whatsoever to do with me at all, I still feel so very proud ("My kids have teeth!  They are obviously super genius miracles!!!").

As with the eight month (chronological) milestone, the closer we get to their first birthday (again chronological...they won't "really" be one until March), the more I start to feel amazed - and slightly overwhelmed - by just how far we've come.  It is really quite mind boggling, something I struggle constantly to wrap my head around.  With two little ones, you spend so much time just thinking day-to-day, which I think is a wonderful, healthy thing (nothing like a baby to teach you how to live in the moment!).  But every now and then, I see or hear something and think, "wow, this really has been a long, rough road".

Truth be told, I still struggle with it quite a bit.  I struggle with my memories, the lingering sadness for myself and the babies that I wasn't even sort of able to process while it was happening.  I struggle with the flashbacks that I always feel unprepared for, the forgotten details that always seem to catch me off guard.  I struggle with the stories that I hear of other families that weren't as lucky as ours, and with learning previously-unknown information about the babies' hospital stay that reminds us how close we came to being one of those less-fortunate families ourselves.  And, of course, I struggle with the unknowns ahead of us, the appointments and the therapies that remind us that maybe we aren't doing as well as I like to think we are.

All of these things are still here, still as pressing as ever, six months from their due date and nine months from their birth.  They'll probably be here for a while.  But even so, here we are, with two amazing solid-food-eating, giggling, rolling, babbling, squirming babies, who bring us more joy than I ever thought possible.  And THAT is definitely worth celebrating.

[caption id="attachment_1216" align="aligncenter" width="590"] Reid at two days old, finally home at one month corrected, and showing off his teeth at six months corrected.[/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1218" align="aligncenter" width="590"] Madeleine at two days old, going home at two weeks corrected, and having a snack at six months corrected.[/caption]

Getting Out, Moving On

This past July, Matt and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary.  Our lovely friend Heather had very generously given us a gift card to a swanky restaurant when the twins were born, and we decided our anniversary would be the perfect time to use it.  Add in a night in an also-swanky hotel, and it was pretty much a new-parents'-first-night-out dream.

We left the twins with my mom for the night, which marked the first time we'd been away from the babies overnight since they came home in April.  I'd heard a few mom friends say that they were so worried to leave their babies for a night out, that they called home multiple times, that the dinner conversation always came back to the baby.  And I'd probably have been that way too if I'd been with Madeleine and Reid since the moment they were born.  But the strange and sad reality is that when your children spend the first three months of their lives in the hospital, you get used to not having them around all the time.  You get used to leaving them behind.

I often think that having an early preemie means that you start out learning to be a mother in the most artificial, unnatural way possible.  It's nobody's fault, of course - it's what needs to happen for your child to survive - but it's a tough adjustment.  You don't hold your baby right away.  You may not even hold your baby for days or weeks after her or she is born (we didn't get to hold Reid for almost two weeks after his birth).  Instead of breastfeeding immediately, you attach yourself to an awkward, gurgling machine for months on end.  You don't dress up your newborn in her going-home outfit and drive off.  She doesn't even wear clothes.  And when she finally does, all those weeks later, you stand in her room and cry at the strangeness of it all.

But the hardest, most abnormal part is the leaving.  The routine you have to follow, where your days consist of visiting your children and then going home at night.  Dropping off frozen breast milk.  Putting on a hospital gown and sitting with your baby against your naked chest for hours until your arms and legs have gone numb.  Falling asleep from the whirring sound of the CPAP machine and the warmth of your little one, and being woken up again by the monitor alarming when his oxygen saturation drops.  Watching the nurses updating each other as the shifts change, and hoping the night nurse will be someone you like, someone who is kind and calm and who you hope will be a good motherly stand-in once you've left for the day.  And then packing up your things and saying goodbye, blocking it out of your mind as you leave that your babies are there alone when they should be going with you.

I found that when it came time to leave the babies for our anniversary - this time on our own terms - I was just as able to block it out as I'd been in the hospital.  It had, for better or worse, become a familiar habit, a well-worn path in my brain.  In fact, our night out, a night that resembled so many wonderful nights out during our pre-baby days, mostly saw us stopping to remind ourselves that yes, we are parents, and yes, all of that really did happen to us.  "Can you believe we have kids?"  "No seriously, we have two kids."  "Our kids are at home right now.  The kids that are ours that we had."

It always astounds me how well our minds can compartmentalize when they need to.  I look back on our experience and think, how on earth did we manage that?  How did we go through that every day for so long?  But the answer is just that we had to.  And seeing how easy we found it to adjust to leaving the babies again, all these months later when our lives look so normal, I realize that no matter how much time passes from those days, no matter how well the babies develop, those early experiences will always be a part of us.  Maybe all we can hope for is that we think about it a little less.

Progress

On Tuesday, the babies and I woke up far too early and headed out to Sick Kids Hospital for Madeleine's usual three-month checkup with her neurosurgeon.  He's seen her four times now since February, and thankfully, we haven't yet had any issues to worry about as far as her shunt function goes.  He asked a few questions about Madeleine's motor development and about potential issues, like having a preference for one side of her body over the other.  No, I told him, no problems yet that we can see.

I was hesitant to ask the question I really wanted to ask, the only question that really matters.  "Do we know anything for sure yet?  Do we know if she's going to be okay?"

He answered in that way that doctors do sometimes, when they don't want to commit to something they can't guarantee.  "It's too early to say," he said.  "But I will say that given the severity of her bleed, I certainly didn't expect her to be doing this well."

It was just what I was hoping for, what we had been dreaming of all of these months.  But at the same time, there was still something nagging at me, still a whirl of anxiety making it's way through my chest.  Of course I'm grateful to hear that Madeleine is doing better than expected - of course!  But even though we've been watching her blow us all always this whole time, even though we had a feeling that she was doing better than she could have been, even though every little new thing she does is a big step in the right direction, I had been trying very hard to not consider the outcome I've always really been hoping for - that maybe nothing will be wrong with her.  I'm hesitant and slightly ashamed to even write those words, to let them slip out of the secret place in the back of my mind I've reserved for the best case scenario.  Best to prepare myself, I figured.  Best not to get my hopes up in case something still goes wrong.  Best to take it a day at a time and not get ahead of myself.

I'm ahead of myself.  I can't help it.  Each time Madeleine impresses her doctors, the part of me that dreams of my girl running and playing and having chatty, articulate conversations gets a little more excited.  The part of me that hopes that she'll grow up and we'll look back and say, "you had hydrocephalus, and look at you know!".  The part of me that hopes that one day we will be the people telling the scared, new preemie mom that their daughter had a grade III intraventricular hemorrhage and you'd never even know it.  And each time nothing goes wrong, that hope gets a little bit stronger.

Of course, I know that if that doesn't happen, if she has developmental impairments that are mild or moderate or crazy severe, if she ends up not being able to walk without help or talk or write or if she needs special help at school, if she has trouble seeing or hearing or whatever it is, it will be more than fine.  She has already shown us that she is perfect and incredible.  I know that even the progress we have made so far is an achievement, that many babies like Madeleine haven't done so well, that we should be counting our blessings for what we have.  I know that no matter what, our lives won't really change that much at all, and motherhood will still by far be the best thing that will ever happen to me, the most incredible, life-changing gift I've ever been given.  I know that health issues and disabilities do not at all change the heart of who a child is.  That they will not change who Madeleine is.

But then there is the part of me who dreams of Madeleine's future and wants her to have only the best, most incredible, easy, beautiful life.  The part of me who doesn't always count her blessings.  The part of me that hopes that we'll beat the odds despite everything we've been through.  That part just might end up pretty disappointed.

Eight Months Old

Today, the babies turn eight months old!  They aren't really eight months, of course - more like almost five based on their due date - but this milestone had me thinking a bit:  at what point will we stop thinking of them based on their "corrected" age?  Up until this point, I've been almost completely oblivious to the concept of their actual age, I really only ever think in corrected age.  But today, at eight months, I stopped to think.  Madeleine and Reid were born eight months ago.  Eight months ago!  We've been together for eight months now.  And what a ride it's been.

Madeleine at eight months...

... weighs 12 lbs 4 oz, which makes her a bit of a petite little lady!

... is rolling over like a champ, all day long.  Her sheer determination kind of surpasses her actual strength though, so she often thrusts herself onto her belly without quite being able to roll back before getting tired.  Frustration ensues.  (She'll get there!)

... is starting to really notice the world around her.  She loves watching everything, loves staring at her brother and reaching out to touch him and hold his hand (and sometimes to clock him in the face!).  She's even begun trying to reach out to Rosie, and is starting to really get interested in this little furry friend of hers!  So fascinating to see her become interested in things that weren't really on her radar before.

I know everyone thinks their children are the most beautiful children to ever exist, but sometimes I look at Maddie and think, "wow, I can't believe how beautiful she is." Not even just in terms of physical beauty, but everything about her, her whole being...I think she is incredible.  The way she smiles wide when she first sees you in the morning, the way she loves it when you give her kisses, her fiery determination, that spark she has that makes her so "Madeleine-y".  I think about everything she's been through, and then I think about this remarkable, beautiful little soul I get to spend my days with, and it's almost too much for my brain to handle.  It is an incredible privilege of the highest possible level to get to be her mother.

Reid at eight months...

... weighs 15 lbs!  Reid has been eating, eating, eating, and growing like a weed over the last little while.  I only just pulled out his 3-6 months clothes, and already I've had to start putting some of them away because he's outgrown them!

... has finally grown in a full head of hair after his previous balding stage.  It's gorgeous, and it's STILL BROWN, which makes Mama really happy!!!

... thinks EVERYTHING is funny, and laughs all the time!  It is wonderful.  His personal favourites are diaper changes (he thinks they're hilarious!!!), and when we ask him whether he's a funny guy ("yes I am Mama!  Look at me laugh!!!").  I don't think I will ever get tired of hearing his little giggles.

... is struggling with tummy stuff still, and more awful diaper rashes!  It's interesting having twins, because we do the same things for both babies, and yet, Reid is constantly getting rashes while Maddie has never had one!  Just goes to show how every baby is different, I think.

... continues to be his sweet, snuggly little self who just loves to be loved and held, which is great for me, as I love to love and hold him!

These days, we are getting out a lot more as a trio, which is great.  It is still a challenge, and some days we probably would have been a LOT better off if we'd stayed home, but it's still exciting to see us progressing.  Motherhood is tough at the best of times, but the payoff is so fantastic and so surprisingly beautiful that it helps keep the momentum going on days where I feel like I'm starting to sink.  Eight months in, and we are so doing this!  Go team!!!

Being a Preemie Mom

I don't leave the house much these days.  It takes so much coordination just to get out the door, and then, if I finally make it to my destination, I actually have to...be there.  Do things.  Feed the babies and change their diapers and pray that they don't cry, and oh, it's just so much harder when I'm not at home with all the STUFF.  Home has such a nice, familiar routine to it, and taking two babies out just feels like asking for trouble.

Thankfully though (and like most things with parenting, I think), when we do leave, it's usually never as bad as I think it's going to be.  I am getting fairly skilled at getting the twins in and out of the stroller, I've made it through one massive, in-public poo blowout, and I've managed to feed both screaming babies in a random school parking lot without having an anxiety attack.  WIN.

Finally beginning to do these things - going out in public like a regular mom - was a big deal, and something I'm pretty proud of.  But it's about so much more than just having it together enough to leave the house.  Even though we knew when the twins were born that the goal was to leave the hospital eventually and live a normal life, the fact that we did that, that we are doing that, still feels jarring to me.  I know how to exist with my babies at home, but taking them out into the world feels so foreign.  We are doing something totally normal and completely abnormal at the same time.  Nobody looks at us and sees it, nobody senses how much of an accomplishment it is to do this normal stuff.  Nobody realizes that being out in the world like this is something that was never guaranteed to us when our babies were born fifteen weeks too soon.

Out in the world, at the doctor's office or the deli counter, I feel really, really proud of these little babies.  These little babies, who lived in a hospital for the first three-and-a-half months of their lives.  These little babies who never looked like everyone else's babies, who never seemed like they belonged out in the world where the 'normal' babies lived.  My babies are PREEMIES.  They hang out in the NICU with the nurses, not at the grocery store to be cooed at by the checkout girl.  My daughter has a shunt!  She sees a neurosurgeon!  SHE HAD A GRADE III INTRAVENTRICULAR HEMORRHAGE!  She's not a normal baby.    

People are fascinated by twins, and they love to stop and ask questions when they see a second baby hiding away at the bottom of the stroller.  "Yes, yes, twins," I want to say, "but look at my babies!  Aren't they beautiful?!  They could have died but they didn't and now here we are in the grocery store!  Isn't it amazing?!"

When we were still in the hospital, I remember thinking that I didn't want to become a 'preemie mom'.  I was a mom of preemies, sure, but I didn't want that to be who I was.  I didn't want my experience as a mother to be limited by the abnormal circumstances of my children's entrance into the world.  And while I do still feel like I can find common ground with moms of full-term, typical babies, there is still a very large part of me that feels so very different.  A large part that can't let go of what happened.  A large part that doesn't want to just yet.

I know one day this will matter less.  Madeleine and Reid will grow up and our lives will progress and change, and their prematurity won't be such a defining aspect of who they are.  One day, hopefully, it won't be such a definitely aspect of who I am either.  But, for now at least, it really, really is.

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Having dinner at an actual restaurant.  No big deal.

27

To my very best friend, on (the night before) his birthday.

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Not Done

Life with twins is pretty hectic most of the time, but every now and then the stars will align perfectly and things will be quiet.  Both babies will be fed, changed, calm and alert, and I can be completely present - not reacting to who is crying or who needs a bottle, but just in the moment, aware, seeing these amazing little beings for who they are.  It is my favourite time, time when I get to study their ever-changing faces, when I get to see them as unique individuals, and when they get to see me relaxed and happy and wholly loving.  And sometimes, if the moment lasts long enough, I will even catch myself thinking, "I don't yet think I'm done having babies."

Since we're still so new to parenthood - seven months out from the babies' actual birth date, and four from their due date - it is, far, far too soon to think about these things with any kind of legitimacy, but it doesn't mean it doesn't cross my mind.  I think it's something you always think about in some way or another when you've decided you want to have a family - what will that look like?  What might the timeline be? - and I know I always hoped to have more than two if it were a realistic possibility.  I remember clearly when it started to feel like it was time to consider getting pregnant as an actual serious option - suddenly, it seemed like our little family of had someone missing (or two someones, as it turned out!).  As unprepared as I felt to have twins, as much as an adjustment it was to become a mother, having Madeleine and Reid here with us now seems more natural than I could have ever expected.  In fact, it's hard to believe they ever weren't here, that a little over a year ago, our family looked so different.  I am so, so glad that we found each other.

When the babies were first born, I was adamant that I was done having children.  My pregnancy was rough, I had serious complications, and my healthy, beautiful babies ended up coming out far too soon because of it.  I never, ever wanted to go through anything like that again.  Matt is very much still in that place - he is so, so, so done, and I can't say that I blame him.  But there is much more to it than that for me.  My dream of what my family would look like, my feelings of immense loss over my difficult pregnancy and the months we spent in the NICU, the incredible fear and sadness that accompanied the twins' birth.  And the feeling that, maybe, there still might be someone missing, another member of our family we still have yet to meet.

Ultimately (and I know this is what really lies at the heart of Matt's resistance), I know I don't want to risk having more preemies.  A second time around, and we'd know exactly what we'd be in for.  We'd already know the sadness, the pain, the stress and heartache.  The knowledge that things could have been so different if only we'd been able to make it an extra month or week or day.  The big question marks surrounding what your baby's life will end up being like.  The feeling that it just wasn't supposed to be like this.

We still have so much time to decide, time to weigh the pros and cons, to talk to doctors and specialists and figure out our options, to get a sense of how we feel, to change our minds or maybe change them back again.  And I know that if we never try again, if I only ever get that one useless shot at pregnancy, if I never get to know what it's like to reach the third trimester or bring home a healthy newborn the day after they are born, if I only ever end up being a mom-of-two, it will be more than enough.

But it sure doesn't mean I don't still think about it.

Mom Bodies

Recently, Reid and I made it out to our very first Kindermusik class.  It's basically a fun little singalong group for mamas and their little ones, and since Reid already finds my lame made-up songs completely hilarious, what could be better than REAL, PROPER SONGS with REAL, PROPER MUSIC??? (Pretty much nothing, is the answer to that question.)

We had a great time overall, he did enjoy it, and we will be going back with Maddie soon. But it was my first real mom and babe outing to a real class with other moms, and as we sat in a circle in that big room with the big, mirrored wall, all I could think was, "I gave birth at the same time as these women and yet, they are all much skinnier than I am!"

When I got pregnant, once the awful misery of morning sickness subsided and before the awful misery of bed rest descended, I had a beautiful little window of pregnancy where I had grown a little bit of a bump, and felt well enough to enjoy it.  I was worried, of course, about the weight gain issue - I think we all worry about gaining too much weight during pregnancy whether or not we admit it - but I was doing my best to eat well and stay active, and I was a small girl pregnant with twins, so I figured I'd end up massive by the end anyway.  Ultimately, I decided I would just take it as it was and try not to judge myself too harshly.

I've always had a bit of a belly, never had a nice flat tummy to be proud of, so the wonderful thing about pregnancy for me was that I no longer had to worry about it - this was how my belly was SUPPOSED to look!  On top of that, I've found that people are awfully generous to pregnant women, telling you your skin is glowing when it definitely isn't, oohing and ahhing over your pregnant-ness too much to notice whether your face is puffy or your butt has gotten jiggly.  I even found it easy to wear a bathing suit when I got pregnant - no one ogles the preggo poolside!

But then, of course, you inevitably give birth.  Since I was only pregnant for six months, I didn't even have a chance to get that big, but that didn't mean I was immune to the physical consequences. Stretch marks that had been hiding under my growing belly were suddenly out in full view.  My twin-bearing hips had gotten wider, and my previously-comfortable underwear was starting to feel snug.  I had a big, red, permanent scar right across my belly from my emergency C-section with Reid.  And I won't even get into the ridiculousness of post-partum breasts, except to say that none of my pre-pregnancy bras fit, and all of my non-maternity tops became borderline inappropriate.

Until I attended Kindermusik, I figured, meh, I had two kids, and I look like it.  Who cares?  Again, people tend to lower the bar for new-mom attractiveness (if you have showered and are wearing clean clothes, people tell you you look great!), and the man who is legally bound to me for life still finds me attractive, so why worry about it?  I would much rather my children grow up with a mom who is comfortable with herself, than one who worries about looking great all the time.  I have a mom body now, big deal.

But then there was the girl with the newborn whose hair looked so lovely and who managed to get makeup on AND her baby out the door in time, and the other girl with the five-month-old with the flat tummy that suggested perhaps her child had been adopted (versus mine, which suggests that maybe I could still have a bun in the oven).  I started to feel a little ashamed that I hadn't tried harder, that I hadn't been going for more long walks with the babies, or taking Stroller Fit classes, or counting calories instead of shoving in whatever food I could grab while the babies were asleep.

It is a tough thing to exist in a world where you are supposed to love and accept your body as it is, but only if it looks perfect.  You are meant to enjoy your pregnancy and embrace the changes your body is experiencing - but don't forget to lose the baby weight right away (and, oh, try to make it look easy while you're at it).

This morning, while the babies were sleeping, I eyed my still-in-the-original-packaging post-partum workout DVD, and figured that I should probably start trying a little harder to get rid of my mom belly. Then I glanced over at my delicious sleeping babies, one on each side of my oh-so-comfortable, rumpled bed, and this mom and her mom body opted instead to clock another glorious hour and a half of blissful, uninterrupted sleep.  I'm sure the 'body after baby' guilt will not be going away any time soon, but at least I'll be that much more well-rested as I try to deal with it.